


Biggles meets a dancer

by id_ten_it



Category: Ballet Shoes - Noel Streatfeild, Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1942. Biggles is running a squadron, Algy looses a Spitfire, Petrova uses her head and Ginger? he spends a lot of time blushing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biggles meets a dancer

**Author's Note:**

> standard disclaimer applies. I have done my best with facts but I haven't researched all of the social issues here thoroughly so some errors will apply.  
> Also, it's a very long time since I've posted anything and I'm trying to work out the formatting so let me know what it looks like?  
> I haven't decided whether to keep going with this or not, either, since I haven't seen any other ballet shoes/ biggles works and have no idea how people will take it!

“It’s the darndest thing.” Algy grumbled, “I can’t find it for love nor money.”  
“If that’s your hand- knitted blue jumper, then it’s in my chest of drawers along with mine. It’s very comfortable.”  
“No, it’s not.” Algy frowned, “Although now you mention it, you’ve had that for a while and I haven’t heard you sniffle for weeks. It must be time to hand it back soon....”  
Biggles looked at him briefly then turned the conversation away from the (very comfortable) jumper “So, if it isn’t that, what have you lost? A Spit?”  
“Exactly.” There was a pause, not quiet thanks to the sounds of an aerodrome in war occurring just outside the office, but still nevertheless. “You’ve lost a ‘plane. One of the best fighters in the world. You’ve lost it.” Biggles’ voice was flat and incredulous as he looked up from the daily orders.  
"Don’t sound quite so impressed, old boy. It was there yesterday went I went up at lunch and it isn’t there now. I had to take up a different one for morning flight! It was supposed to be taken away by the ATA in two hours’ time, for rotation, but it doesn’t seem like that’ll be happening now. It hasn’t been seen since it was re-serviced after I landed.”  
Biggles frowned. “We can’t have planes just disappearing into thin air, Algy, we don’t have enough! Don’t laugh- you know what I mean.”  
“I know.” Algy tried to look contrite. “Can I keep handling it, then? Call our friends the ATA?”  
“Yes. I’m sure I can trust you- come here.” They usually were abstemious on the aerodrome, but it seemed too good to pass up the opportunity to show some trust and Algy didn't seem to be complaining about the sure hand on his back, on his thigh.

“I’ll let you know, later, when you’ve finished being boring.” Algy half- saluted and sauntered out, blinking in the attempt at sunlight.

 

***

 

“Fossil, collect a transport and head over to 666. You’re needed to answer some questions, and be my eyes and ears there.”  
“Yes ma’am. Will I be away long?”  
“Overnight. The 2iC will be your point of contact.” Typically brusque, distressingly familiar from the playing fields of schools she'd walked past as a younger woman.

It was the first time she’d headed to 666, but cross-country courses had always been a favourite part of her flying and it was a beautiful day for it, the wind a gentle tail breeze, the clouds settled at 6,000 feet, the blueness of the sky undimmed through those clouds by tinted plexiglass. She set up on final neatly and cranked down the flap with a sure hand before almost touching her wheels on the fence as she came in across the short apron.

 

***

 

Her sisters had always been able to find their way around in theatres and movie sets, but Petrova's gift of direction really only came to the fore when coupled with aeroplanes and airfields. “Fossil, sir. You sent for me?” Finding the correct office took her minutes, if not less. 

The silhouetted figure turned and sat at a desk swept almost clear of papers. “I don’t normally play favourites, but I hoped you wouldn’t mind,” he smiled.  
Petrova smiled back instinctively, “Mr Lacey! How are you?! It’s been....” She stopped herself short, “Sorry. How are you, sir?”  
Algy grinned across at her. “Sit down, now. I’m fine, though in a bit of a pickle at the moment. I see chauffeuring wasn’t entirely to your tastes?”

 

_War broke out and the aerodrome that she and GUM lived near turned into a training ground for boys; Petrova had an idea. The ATA and WAAF were in their very infancy and she was keen to be in from the start, to be one of the originals. Young and determined she was sure to embody all of the metaphors of flight. When she could instruct, freeing up men to fight, she had always thought the same thing, ‘with more men flying, the chances of Mr. Lacey getting shot are far less.’_

 

“Flying is far preferable, sir. You helped me a lot with that- I never will be able to thank you enough.” How they would laugh at hearing their work-bound 'ice maiden' gushing now.  
“Well, maybe you’ll be singing a different tune after you’ve heard my problem.” Algy let his smile sit on more genial lines, falling as naturally aristocratically as his bearing was assured and Petrova took the chance of naturalness to inspect his face closely. The light was dim and maybe that had something to do with the shadows that were around his eyes, in his cheeks, though she suspected there was more to it than that. He had grown thinner but his hair was the same as she remembered it and his warm smile - thankfully - was just the same as the one which had greeted her a decade ago. It would be impossible to imagine Mr Lacey without his smile

“I don’t think so, sir. I’d be honoured to help.”  
“I rather hoped you’d say that! You see, I’ve lost a ‘plane. A Mk. II Spit.” As always, he spoke directly to the point, not sparing himself from possible ridicule. “I was to have taken her out for her last flight with us this morning before your people removed it and gave me one which worked even better. However the last time she was seen was when she was put away yesterday afternoon. Have you moved it at all? Mk II’s aren’t exactly as rare as hen’s teeth, but they’re not common, either...”  
“No, we haven’t moved it.” That much, at least, she knew. That did nothing to explain why she was here with the one man she’d actually be trying to track down all war. “Do you want me to ask some questions, instead of you? Why would you bring me across just for a question a phone call could have answered?”  
“As sharp as ever.” Algy nodded.

Petrova felt the same flash of pride that she had whenever Mr Lacey had commended her.

“Firstly, and much against my will, I’ve got some people answering to me and they expect I shall answer to them as well. I can’t very well abandon them.” Petrova had to repress an automatic smile at his blasé acknowledgement of his numerous stripes. It was exactly as she remembered his attitude towards any overt (admittedly limited) public recognition. “Secondly we’re rather short of fighter pilots right now, and fighters as well, so I’m kept up in the air more than you would expect. Thirdly, and of far more importance from an investigative point of view, the men know who I am and there’s less chance of stray remarks coming from them when I’m there, while they don’t know who you are at all. And finally, the plane is officially in ATA hands, and I need to do this by the book, which means involving some of you women.” He smiled to show that he, at least, had nothing against it and Petrova smiled back, feeling it light her up from the inside out like the warmth of a drink had during one of her childhood 'beavers'.

“That’s a compelling argument, sir. Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular?”  
“Nothing I can think of, apart from...” he was stopped by an urgent knocking at the closed door. “Algy! Open up! I need you!”  
“Come in, Ginger.” Petrova stood as a rushing body entered the room and stopped three feet from the desk.  
“Oh. Sorry.” His face flushed as red as his hair but his body remained strained like a dog about to be let out to work.   
“Ginger, this is S/O Fossil, Petrova, F/O Hebblethwaite. What’s the rush, Ginger?” The man glanced unconcernedly at Petrova before grimacing at Algy, clearly preoccupied by the war.  
“Another pilot down, in infirmary. You’re the only one free- can you be up in half an hour, Biggles asks, and can you visit him before you go up?”  
“Of course, to both. I’ll just sort out Petrova and then Biggles can expect me. Will you let him know?” Ginger dashed off again, ducking under the friendly cuffing of another pilot as he hared across the grass.

“That was the apart from?” smiled Petrova. Algy nodded.  
“They’re rather enthusiastic, and tight- knit. Most other squadrons are sharing an aerodrome, or at least have lots of other squadrons nearby. We’re a bit more isolated, and it shows.” His brow uncreased as he shouldered her flight bag, and his own “If you follow me I’ll get you bunked down- this could take a few days- and see your CO knows it’s all clear this end for you to stay. Then I’d better see Biggles. I shan’t be able to come and find you until after dinner, so you’ll have plenty of time to make friends.” They shook hands at the admin block then went their separate ways.

 

***

 

The first flight she went on she couldn’t ever talk about, though talking got easier as the joy became more familiar. The only thing she would say to anyone who asked was, “I owe Mr Simpson and Mr Lacey a very great deal and I don’t know what I’ll ever be able to do for them.”

 

***

 

_Dear Pauline,_

_I don't know if you got my last post- it may have been one of those sunk or it may not have- but as it was mainly gossip and talk about flying I don't think I'll bother trying to recall any of it._

Petrova sighed and stared out of the window. She'd briefed Mr. Lacey (as she still thought of him) on everything she'd found out that afternoon, meeting him after dinner. It hadn't amounted to much, though dinner as the only resident female had been an interesting affair...

_As you would expect it's raining at the moment, so I'm curled up in the mess, balancing notepaper and a cup of tea on my knees, as well as a rug. There's a small dog curled up in front of the fire but he doesn't seem particularly interested in anything. The men are all out either fixing cars - I am not invited, being only a first timer at this airfield - or visiting a neighbouring squadron, one which houses men who apparently flew with both the CO and 2iC Last Time._

_That made me feel young, but if they're still flying they can't be too much older than you, can they? Of course war ages a person._

_Apart from the terrible weather there's little to report. I fly when and where I'm told and it's an absolute joy- so much better than dancing or acting ever was. There's some talk about moving us to a different aerodrome (again!) but I'm not too concerned either way. Gum keeps me welcome whenever I can get back to him, which is far more often than any of the other ATA posts. However I room with a very nice girl, so I hope they move us together. There's nothing certain though rumours fly faster than bullets, so everyone says._

The dog shifted in his sleep and she glanced up, smiling as he snuffled. "Chasing rabbits, are you, old boy?" glancing back at what she had written she considered the last line. It was almost tempting fate, wasn't it? Touching wood (aviators being naturally as superstitious as sailors) she continued her missive.

_I saw one of your films the other week! It reminded me of how long it's been since I saw you last. You did very well, though I'm sure everyone else has told you that already. I tried to see it when it first came out but there were so many air raids I just gave up, then it was all I could do to tumble into bed. I thought you deserved my undivided attention, so that's what I gave it. I won't do what Posy would do and tear apart the whole, take by take. That's not how I think it should work, much to Madame's disgust! I think in all you did splendidly. There were a couple moments when I thought that man supporting you could have done more, or less, in the way of his job, but that has nothing to do with you. He sometimes didn't give you much to work with, but you worked with it so well. I really should get some photographs taken of me to send to you and Posy. If you've changed so much how must we have done the same?_

_Maybe once this is over we'll all settle down in America. Or perhaps not - Manoff will no doubt go back to touring Europe, though whether he continues picking up stray orphans is another matter. I don't see Posy being pleased by that idea!_

There was a scrunch of tyres and she glanced up in time to see the tail-end of a Bentley turn through to the offices across the way. There were two hands waving from the back windows and she could see two heads in the front as well. Surely no-one could afford a car like that but some top brass? She considered making herself more presentable but the steady drizzle and the cold - the fire was a suggestion more than anything - stopped her. They could take her as she was, if they even came in.

_The most beautiful car has just come in, one I haven't seen about the streets for a while now, and I don't know who could be driving it, so I will have to pause. This may well end up posted like this, if the weather finally clears._

_It's funny but people always laughed about the English opening their conversation with talk about the weather. Yet everyone does it now, our brave Poles, our funny Colonials, the brash Yanks. Weather is so important in war._

Again her restless gaze searched out the glass that separated her from a dreary trough. She was still considering the sight when the door opened and the dog put his head up. The next moment he ran, claws scuttling over the floor, little snorts coming from his eager mouth. Petrova uncurled herself a little to see who had elicited this response. A tallish, foppish sort of man crouched in the doorway, petting him and removing a monocle as he did so. "How goes it, Towser? Not too dull for you, I hope? These philistines wouldn't let you come but then the way he drives it's probably a good thing...."  
"Enough of that sort of talk or I'll report you to Biggles." muttered a familiar voice.  
"You'll tell Biggles anyway" jibed a third. Petrova struggled to keep up with all of this wrangling.  
"Algy'll tell me what?"  
"That we've company. And very fine company it is, too." Petrova started. She hadn't heard the speaker come up behind her, as she was still watching the dog and his master and the appearance of new characters on the scene. She'd been processing the almost-familiar dull red hair of a freckled young man and the slight build of the last enquirer instead of following the friendliest, most familiar of the lot. Brown hair, brown eyes and a slender build, she still hadn't found a clear identifying feature apart from his ability to sneak around on wooden floors and his enchanting smile... and the natural affinity she had with him after he was the first person to take her flying.

"We didn't mean to disturb you." Mr Lacey apologised as she smiled and took his offered hand to stand. "I hope we didn't ruin your letter, I wouldn't like you to disappear off into the sunset leaving me to actually work." they shared a grin of conversations from years ago.  
"Not at all. I was just waiting for the weather to clear enough for me to run over to bed. I thought it would be warmer here than anywhere else, though I'd heard most of you were away." She felt a little awkward sitting in the mess with actual RAF officers trying to use it, but it was such a small base that there weren’t a large number of places to be, and when the aerodrome had emptied out….

Half an hour later, when Biggles stood she glanced up at him ruefully. "It's not fair they'll let you fly and not me." He shook his head. "No flying for me, except for a desk. I'm sure Algy will keep me up to date with his latest protégée." She blinked.  
"You've been leading me on! I thought you were quite a nice man, and then I find you're the CO here! Why didn't anyone tell me?" She struggled to her feet but he waved her down.

Biggles was a name she knew, of course, as well as she knew Earhart, Ball, von Richtofen, Deere and Bader, but unlike the others he was nothing like she’d imagined. Certainly the few photographs that had been published of him didn’t show him as he really was. Small and a little tired looking with the hint of a twitch around his mouth - a twitch that smiled slightly at her words. "Nonsense. It's been a pleasure to talk to someone closer to sanity than these clowns. Towser" his voice was wryly amused "has unfortunately absorbed much of his masters personality. I look forward to signing off on that new Spit when you take away the old one, Miss...."

"Fossil. Sorry, terrible manners of me, I know." Clearly he really did trust Mr Lacey with things. Most COs would demand reports in detail on such a mission but Biggles had given him the job to do and left him to it, exactly as Mr Lacey had said he had.  
"Not nearly as bad as pretending not to be the CO." Ginger tried.  
Biggles shrugged, completely unperturbed "If that's the worst thing I'm remembered for I'll be lucky. I hope to see you soon, Miss Fossil."  
Bertie looked after him viciously. "Did you hear that, Ginger?! He attacked me and my dog! Underhanded piece of work is Biggles...." Petrova didn't know whether to laugh or not.

 

"Pauline Fossil!" The man with the dog-another one with a large number of titles who went by a diminutive, as it turned out-glanced at Algy a little shyly. "I _knew_ I’d heard the name somewhere before.” With a reminiscing sort of look he blinked at Algy, “I thought I knew _some_ one who talked about the Fossil sisters. He was trying to set up a garage and was excited about having a female apprentice. I suppose this war interrupted his plans."  
Algy grinned sheepishly “I guess so.” His almost bashful response caused Bertie to break into sniggers which he carefully disguised at Towser’s expense while Ginger put up his hand as if he was still in school. "Should I know what you're sniggering about? Did I hear Pauline Fossil in there somewhere?"  
Petrova nodded. "My older sister.” The next question followed easily now, “I take it you follow the movies avidly then?"  
Ginger agreed and Bertie abandoned wrestling with Towser to concur, breathing under control, "That's where we were just now. Ginger always drags someone along with him. He's seen that latest one three times now."

"You two try not to ruin all our good work while I go and talk to Biggles." Algy said abruptly, standing and leaving. Towser yapped and Algy threw a careless (though still obeyed) “Enough!" over his shoulder.  
"What's that all about?" Petrova asked. She couldn't help but think there were undercurrents she was missing. Backstage had been full of them and she had proved particularly sensitive to them, if not to the demands of producers, directors and their ilk.  
"Algy and Biggles are cousins. They fought together last time and have been boarding together pretty much since. They trained this one...." Bertie nodded at Ginger, "and I'd say Algy has an idea that he thinks only he can convince Biggles of carrying out. Usually he's very good at convincing people."  
Ginger nodded and rubbed his right arm ruefully. “It’s a gift he has. Me Da would call it the gift of the gab, but I’ll reckon there’s another name for it not so nice.” He paused, then added earnestly, “but I don’t think he could ever do anything like that. Not our Algy.”

Petrova and Bertie relaxed together, Bertie laughing slightly at the look on her face when confronted with Ginger’s hero-worship.

 

***

 

_The funniest thing happened just after I broke off. Four men came in. They drove up in the Bentley (true blue British and very practical) so I suspected an inspection. However one of them owns the dog - Towser, is his name. The dog I mean, not the man - and they all came to see the creature. I’d stumbled up and another of them-everyone here calls him Algy although his full name and titles are longer than the worst dance show-picked up this letter and the book I was leaning on from where they’d fallen. He saw Petrova Fossil in one and Pauline on another (though he didn’t mean to look). Well, he’s heard of you and he asked about Posy and wishes you both well. So you see we’re getting there!_

She sat back on the same chair and glanced at the man next to her. His brown hair was in one eye, his fingers moving restlessly through a thick pile of paper. How to work in that he’d remembered her too, thought of her now as a grown woman and not just as a crazy lady who wanted to fly but as a person interested in mechanics and engineering, theatre and books, planes, cars and the inner workings of a camera? They had conversations which were longer than the polite ones she had with Biggles, more comfortable than the stuttering ones with Ginger and deeper than the bare bones Bertie would talk about. There were other men about, of course, but these four were the ones who were always around, always exercising power.

Algy glanced up at her. “Spelling trouble?” he smiled. That smile...she wasn't surprised that Ginger was infatuated with him. She was, too.  
She shook her head “You’ve been playing Uncle to Ginger for too long. I’m trying to describe you. That’s alright, isn’t it?”  
Algy’s eyebrows went up in exaggerated shock. “Ginger’s young and irresponsible, Bertie’s a little older and irrepressible and Biggles is the leader who’s seen it all before.” He glanced at an exhausted, muddy, Towser. “And Towser is the loved and sadly neglected dog”.  
Petrova smiled. “You have a way with words but clearly not with numbers - what about yourself?”  
"I’m no one special. I do the menial tasks and am allowed to tag along.” He grinned, “And I talk to all the pretty women. It’s a tough life to be sure.”  
She blushed but replied in kind. “You do so well.”  
“You make it easy.” He glanced at his watch and sighed, “which makes it harder to break myself away. However I’ve a meeting with the CO. Will I see you after lunch?”  
“I think so. This doesn’t look like clearing soon.” They both glanced outside.  
“The English Pilots problem.” Algy joked, “Just don’t let Biggles bully you into flying until you’re comfortable. He gets quite territorial sometimes.” With a final grin he strode off and she watched him go with a puzzled frown. Did that last comment refer to the need for WAAFs to be welcomed here for duties taking up men or was it to do with the new Spits due and her own beloved ATA? Towser stirred hopefully as Bertie rushed in. “Dash it!” he cried, spying Algy at Biggles’ door. “They’ll be closeted together for hours.”

Throwing himself in Algy’s reluctantly cleared chair in disgust Bertie grimaced angrily at the ceiling, thoughts obviously elsewhere. Petrova’s mind flickered a half question. Did Biggles want Algy all to himself again, having got used to it just being the two of them?

Well, she wasn’t looking to settle down so their precious bachelor pad was safe...for the moment.

 

***

 

The weather continued as badly as she had foreseen which gave a perfect opportunity for sitting around and chatting with the ground crew. There was one who told tall stories, and the rest told even taller ones. Petrova enjoyed listening to them, but she had to try and steer the conversation as best as she could towards the missing Spitfire.

“Aww, you always talk about work, luv?” Jim drawled around his smoke, “it’s not every day we get female company.”  
Petrova had to smother a grin, “let me guess, especially one so fine looking?” her voice mimicked Jims perfectly and they all broke into peals of laughter.  
“But of course we should tell you exactly why we’re the guys for you!” They all settled down and dragged Jim’s crate a little further forwards into the limelight of their dimly-lit hanger to a chorus of “this is all true”, “a good story!” and variously ribald comments.

“So the other day - well, yesterday-ish - there was only one flight that did anything exciting. Lacey led it, and he dumped his Spit with me and my boys and headed off- something about needing to see the CO.”

“They do spend a lot of time together, don’t they?” another commented absently, smirking, “maybe there’s a lovely lady the Boss keeps in his cupboard…”

“As I was saying” Jim interrupted, “there I was with this Spitfire just sitting there, and nothing really wrong with it.” He grinned at Petrova and she couldn’t help notice his charm. (It wouldn’t be the first time a boy-man had caused a funny sensation in her chest, but there was nothing more, not after he had been posted as missing. That was still very much in her thoughts, although they had never been…in love.)

Jim shrugged, “well, what could I do? I knew Rosie was gasping to see his girl, and he’s been a hell of a good guy to have about the place, so I let him know. Of course, there’s another few lovely ladies out her way as well, so I thought to tag along. It was a tight fit, and in the end I’m glad we decided against anything more. He - and here, ‘Trova, I’m telling you what dedication we support here - did a loop over her farm and ended up almost ploughing it.” Petrova, and a couple of the others who hadn’t heard the story before, didn’t manage to hide a reflexive wince.

“He…” Jim grinned, “almost totalled this Spit he wasn’t supposed to have. Thankfully he ended up managing to right it enough to land on the undercarriage, but it was a one- time landing. So you see the Spit’s ok and he’s taken her out for a night on the town. It all worked out very well.” He leant towards her and casually ground the cigarette beneath his heel, voice dropping half an octave “which is why you should trust this squadron. We look out for our girls.”

“Do better to look after your planes, Jim.” Petrova patted his cheek with a motherly air, “best way to a pilot’s heart.”

“HA! That’ll teach you to try and impress a girl, Jimbo!”

“At least I didn’t almost kill myself and the plane in front of her” Jim snarled back.

“Might do us all a favour if you would. Be a bit quieter round hear if you managed to leave”

“You just want my bunk, mate.”

“Pshaw! No-one would want that wooden slab you call a bunk.” The banter happened so quickly that Petrova couldn’t follow all of it and had to assume it made sense to someone, because it was so full of squadron jokes that it didn’t to her. She was busy trying to remember the whole story - in all its details - so she could tell Mr La- sir, as soon as they were next both free.

 

***

 

“You always knew that once you’d tamed this lot down a bit there’d be women muscling in.” Algy stated calmly, seating himself on his favourite perch in this office - Biggles’ desk corner.

“That doesn’t mean I have to welcome them with open arms! There weren’t any women hanging about in France getting underfoot.”

“And look how many men ran off just to find one, and only because they wanted conversation, some of them.”

Biggles snorted, “You don’t honestly believe that do you?” but he said it without malice and a moment later was inclined to agree with Algy.

“So what are they trying to send you, apart from ferry pilots?”

“There’s a list as long as my arm. I’ve tried to tell them we aren’t a training squadron but they just don’t listen. It sounds as though there’ll be women shoved into every nook and cranny. Picnics on the lawn, croquet and tea in the afternoon, I shouldn’t wonder.” Grey eyes looked up despairingly before the weary head dropped into fine hands.

Algy reached over and patted his friends shoulder. “You never know, they might prove very good cooks.” He jested. For his attempt he was greeted with a hollow groan. “Very theatrical. Alright then, let’s have a look and see what we can do. You realise they’ll have to be billeted separately? Who’s their CO? Because you can’t be expected to think of everything a woman needs - why, you aren’t even married!”

Biggles scrabbled around for some paper, while shooting his friend a menacing glare, “I don’t need to be married, thank you very much. I’m sure everyone understands that.”

Algy smirked and leant closer, his breath drifting across the neatly pressed shirt collar. “I hope not everyone understands that.”

 

***

 

The first time Mr Simpson proposed a Sunday drive, just the two of them, Petrova had felt a momentary pang that she should have gone and be primped and bring the others. She didn’t actually think about it till they were on the road and he easily assured her they wouldn’t appreciate it and suggested she look in the back and check her jeans were still there. It was a bit windy and overcast and when he said they were going to an aerodrome she was worried there would be little to see since they were civilian students in an area she had read tended to fly only in fine weather. Thankfully she was wrong. “Did you see the Tiger Moth side slip on final to just the right height?” she asked excitedly as they drew up.

“I was a little busy parking.” He answered with a grin. “Now hop out- there’s a chappie over there who I know. I think you’ll like him.”

She peered at him suspiciously, “We’re actually going to be allowed to touch the aeroplanes?”

“Hopefully. You know all the ground rules of an aerodrome better than I do, I should say, so I won’t remind you of them and I won’t race you there.” They walked across slowly - Petrova was looking everywhere at once. “It’s just as they described it! There’s the fire - there’s the lights and the mown-down strip and here’s the hangars.”

Mr Simpson nodded. “My wife thought you’d be rattling off facts and figures like nobody’s business. Do you think you want to meet this friend now?”

There was a cheerful-looking man coming towards them, smiling. “John! I wasn’t sure you’d be here so soon.” As he stood next to Mr. Simpson Petrova realised he was thinner than her friend but not much taller, standing with his head level with the top aerofoil of the Tiger Moth. “We managed to sneak away straight after lunch.” Mr. Simpson answered with a conspiratorial smile.  
“Flying over lunch!” the man chortled a little as he turned to Petrova. It made him look even friendlier, “Now young lady, I hear you’re interested in mechanics?” She smiled a little tremulously, keen ears following the airborne Tiger Moth through its paces.  
“Yes sir. I’m going to be a chauffeur in three and a half years, and then I’m going to learn to fly.”

He nodded seriously. “That’s a good ambition. Less of the sir though- Mr Lacey will do me fine! Now your Mr. Simpson has told me that you read all sorts of journals as fast as you can so I don’t want to bore you with the basics that you already know. Would you like to walk me around this aircraft and tell me what you know?”

Excitement prevented her from hanging back shyly, or from considering him anything other than exceedingly friendly. For the next four hours, until they had to leave for dinner, Petrova and Mr Simpson (who was almost as fast a learner as she was) were talked through the intricacies of the Tiger Moths Mr. Lacey had in the hanger, and also the Sopwith Camel which he had a model of on the shelf. When, without thinking at the end of the afternoon, Petrova dropped a curtsey as she thanked him, Mr. Lacey blinked.

“Of course you are trained in dance.” He commented, “You keep your proficiency in that until you can earn as a chauffeur, Petrova.”

He seemed about to ask something else- Petrova hoped it wasn’t a request to dance in her overalls - but he made a comment which seemed to take Mr. Simpson by surprise instead.

“I was thinking about training as a pianist until I became a pilot. You see, we are a diverse bunch.”

It wasn’t until a few months later, when she had talked with Mr. Lacey three more times, that she asked Mr. Simpson how they’d met. “Algy and his friend have a habit of finding people who need a bit of a hand and trying to give it to them.” She wondered at that, until she found a set of old newspaper clippings, one of them mentioning two aviators and two boys who had found several thousand dollars worth of treasure and been made handsome remuneration from HM government.

 

***

 

“Pity you couldn’t have come ‘ere earlier, ‘Trova. The old man’d be nicer then.” Jim drew another leisurely drag deep into his lungs, crossing his ankles on top of a battered tool box as his companions snorted. “What? Biggles? He was being nice?! Are you sure we’re talking about the same man?” Petrova had to hide a smile. Though she had seen many different COs in her travels between aerodromes, Biggles would have to be the most reserved. But that didn’t make him the worst, and he was far from the harshest. She had heard him asking the transport driver all about his father with the sincere interest of a man who cared for his charges, and the in-depth conversations he had with Mr Lacey were always producing smiles in tired faces.

“Oh well” she smiled, “this way I have more of an excuse to stay here with you instead.”

“Oho! Jimbo!” the wolf-whistles were loud enough that they attracted the attention of the ever-mobile Ginger, who stuck his red haired self around the hangar doors. Patrova met his eyes when they all looked up to see who it was and he looked away at the same time as she did.

“I wondered what all the fuss was about!” the newcomer grinned, “I should have known you’d be in the middle of it, Jim.”

Jim grinned right back, tired eyes and all “Can you blame me? ‘Trova was talking about the Big Bad Biggles, but… I can’t really remember what she was saying.” He trailed off a little as he remembered how close Ginger was to the man under discussion, but brightened when the youth appeared unfazed, sitting next to Petrova, “you could tell me again.” He invited, trying to ignore the faint scent of femininity underneath the more familiar smells of oil and petrol.

“She could tell you some of it! The rest would have to wait till we knew you were all growned up”  
Ginger’s face grew as red as his hair. “I’m not actually the youngest in this room, you know.”

“I suppose that would be me” Petrova laughed.

“Miss Fossil, even if were that fact not true you would always seem the youngest in the room. You good looks-“ “Beuaty-“ “Charm-“ “Personality-“ “-and general joi d’vivre would ensure that.” Jim grinned. “Wouldn’t they, chaps?” The general vote, of course, was that they would.

“Thank you all very much” Petrova grinned, perhaps just a little flushed from the attention. It was different to being on stage and these men mattered - they might very well become her new companions, if what her bossy superior had hinted at was anything to go by. Her grin took in Ginger as well, his slightly more timid smile at least reaching his eyes. “I haven’t actually told them anything really. I was just going to say that Biggles asked me to meet him in his office in-“ she glanced at her watch “ten minutes. So naturally I came here to see if anyone knew why.”

Ginger shook his head along with the rest of them. “but I’ll come and see if you need back up.” He volunteered staunchly, “you know what he thinks of me.”

“Better of you than you deserve” Rosie laughed, clapping Ginger’s back. “there you are, ‘Trova. A knight in shining armour for you.”

“And a true gentleman.” Petrova added, her words the flaming red cherry for his blush. After all, it wasn’t like _he_ was going to come back. Or that her and Ginger - she really should find out his first name - were going to do anything much.

“We’d best get going then.” The eponymous pilot murmured, “you know what a stickler he is.” He looked pleased when she laughed along with everyone else.

 

***

 

Seated behind his desk, smoking a pensive cigarette, Biggles looked at the clock. Still another four minutes before his next meeting. Standing, he ran a critical eye over the desk and other pieces of furniture as though he were readying it for an inspection. The large map on the wall was good enough, if a little covered in pinholes, but the map pigeonholes below it were in need of straightening out. Their contents were no long folded precisely, or in the same order that had been written above them. A simple task that simply was forgotten in the haste of using the information obtained from the now-recalcitrant paper. The windows were clean enough their sunlight showed up dust motes dancing over the books he kept on the shelf behind his desk. His desk that he would rather not consider, all things being equal. Instead he spent the couple minutes he had hanging his jacket up more neatly, reshaping his hat, and removing the pen and cigarette case which had settled themselves onto the spare chair. As an after-thought he opened the windows slightly to allow some fresh air to seep in through the fug of smoke and long-occupied room. Everything else was in neat, although numerous, piles and that would have to do for now.  
His uniform, of course, was immaculate.  
With a slightly pleased air, he finished off his cigarette, the faint smile around his lips becoming more pronounced as the knock at the door neatly dovetailed in with his extinguishing of the smoke. “Come!”

Ginger smiled at Petrova, frank face comforting in the extreme. “I’m sure he’s just thought of a hundred questions about logistics to ask you.” It was the first time she had been in this office but she knew she’d never forget it. Unlike every COs office she had been in this had no pretences at anything other than the busy office of a war maker. There were no figurines or decorations; in fact if it weren’t for the copious amounts of paper, and the old wooden desk the room would be a stark, functional white cell. The only relief came from a painting hanging on the wall - strangely coloured and of an image she guessed was from the east, although she couldn’t be sure. There was the hint of an elephant, or maybe a tiger, in the background swirls of colour.

Ginger shut the door behind them. “Here you are, Chief.”  
Biggles gestured at the chair, “please, have a seat.” He glanced at Ginger, “Thankyou, Ginger.”  
With a slightly suspicious grin, the man disappeared, giving Petrova another look on his way out. “Lacey has given me an excellent report of your conduct so far. As you probably noticed, the Spitfire was recovered yesterday and has been replaced by a far better model.” Petrova nodded, although in truth she hadn’t known about the change. “He seems very fond of you….” It was impossible to read Biggles’ expression and his words seemed more of a pronouncement, “which in part led me to consider the next problem.” His fingers tapped an uneasy pattern over the desk in front of him as she watched, stormy grey eyes considering her face while he presumably weighed his words.  
It would be some time before she understood that it was merely a ruse – he was no more weighing his words in the heat of the moment than he was spontaneously coming up with ideas of how to command or what positions to give people. Biggles, to an even greater extent than the apparently irrepressible yet sternly moral Algy, was careful and considered in his approach to all problems, her presence included.  
“I hope the solution is satisfactory sir….” At twenty-nine she had more than mastered the art of speaking politely, even if Nanna had long since stopped complaining about it.  
“I hope so too, Fossil.” A sudden swirl of movement saw him pacing behind his desk and again Mr Lacey’s stories of acting in mess hall shows flashed through her mind. “For the problem is a difficult one” difficult for himself, at the very least. He knew what Algy was like with women. What Ginger and Bertie were like. “We are a growing force in this part of the world. Twenty years of development have done some to encourage people to look kindly on us and last years’ dogfights have greatly helped us along the path to respectability and reverence. However in the current climate, it is important to have the most support we can. To move with the times. The possibilities of action provided for under the WAAF system are ones we need, especially with the war coming this way more and more.”  
“Sir…”  
He held up a hand, “I know you’re ATA at the moment, Fossil. However you’re also approaching the age they stop women from flying. There’s really no reason to, if you ask me, but one can’t argue with that. Bureaucracy reigns, especially in wartime. So I’m offering you a proprosition. Join the WAAF and set up a delegation of women here. Photo Interpreters, workers, clerks…whatever women you see fit.” His smile was actually quite sweet and disarming, for a confirmed grumpy old man “I know nothing about women so it had better be done through someone who does. It’s about time Hebblethwaite or Lissie got something to do rather than swanning about making more work for the rest of us.” He seemed so very innocent when he added, “you don’t mind working with one of them, do you?”

Petrova shook her head, body neatly composed as Madame would have liked it. “It’s no problem, sir. I’ll go and speak with my superior and…”  
“I’ll talk with her if you like. There are ways around being grouched at by her. Something to do with being male.” 

She still, three weeks on, wasn't sure if his last comment was a joke or not.


End file.
